Sixteen Keemarnians, appointed by the Rorka for his personal staff, rode behind him. Sir John and Desmond were already in the Temple. A beautiful blue carpet spread from the door to the street, and the whole way was lined with flowers. Slowly Alan walked up the flowered aisle and took his place at the altar rails. The organ was playing softly. Suddenly it burst out into the Ipso-Rorka’s personal air—The Bride had arrived. On the arm of the Rorka she walked up the long aisle. Her bridal gown of blue brought out the colour of her eyes. Upon her hair was draped a thin veil of gold, and her long train was carried by little sturdy John Alan! At the altar rails they stopped, and the High Priest demanded—“Who giveth permission, that this woman shall leave her home and her people, and live in peace with the mate of her choice?” “I do,” said the Rorka. “You are convinced that happiness and joy will be the woman’s lot?” “I am.” “Thanks be to Mitzor. I am content.” Thereupon the Rorka took his seat upon his throne, and the ceremony commenced. Mavis, who had followed the bridal procession, now took her place on Chlorie’s left, to assist the bride. It was a beautiful ceremony, and the incense, the priest’s vestments, the music, all helped to make it awe inspiring and impressive. The gifts were offered—Chlorie accepted them—the moment was almost at hand that would make them one. Alan was repeating softly after the priest— “May this ring, with which I encircle thy finger, be a lasting proof of the unity of our affection. May the circlet with which I crown thee, prove that I honour thee as my loved one, and install thee as Queen of my House.” And Chlorie answered softly, “I accept this ring, and from my finger it shall never slip. I accept the crown that thou offerest me, and in return I pray Mitzor the Mighty, that I may rule my household wisely and well.” Then came the vows of love and fidelity; each repeated the words with hands clasped. “Before Mitzor the Mighty, the Great White Glory, I promise to let naught come between my chosen spouse and me. I promise to love him (her) and honour him (her), share his (her) troubles, and smooth away his (her) griefs. Lastly, I ask Mitzor, the Tower of Strength, to crown us both with the glory of our union.” Then, kneeling, the High Priest blessed them. “May Mitzor, the Great White Glory, bless you both, and keep you both in the paths of righteousness. May he make thee, Oh Ak-Alan, a tender husband; and thee, Chlorie, a loving wife. Thy vows are made—kneel and pray while the sacrificial fires are lighted, and the dust of thy offering is thrown to the winds.” Hand in hand the newly married pair knelt. Into a tiny tabernacle the offering of fruits was placed—the doors closed upon it. A second passed, and by the aid of etheric heat there was nothing left but a little powdery dust.